


The Yellow Saviour

by Taimi



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Drinking, Football | Soccer, Footballer!France, Francis doesn't set a good example, Gen, Human Names, M/M, Tycoon!Russia, at least one is totally made-up, this is totally stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3859894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taimi/pseuds/Taimi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis Bonnefoy, footballer extraordinaire with a not-so-honourable reputation off-field, encounters his opportunity for a fresh start at a new club… and tries very hard not to screw up this time.</p>
<p>(or, "Francis Bonnefoy reconsiders the charm of the colour yellow and shitty hybrid cars")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Yellow Saviour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZarAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZarAlexander/gifts).



> Written some months ago for my friend ZarAlexander, who is a passionate RuFra fan. English is not my mother tongue, but I truly hope you won't find too many mistakes...
> 
> Also, please bear in mind that Francis' opinions concerning eco-friendly cars aren't necessarily those of the author ;)

Francis didn't even know how many of those crappy sugary drinks had already gotten down his burning throat when pale fingers closed around his wrist and that heavily accented voice murmured in his ear.

"I think you had too much already."

Francis blinked, staring at the stranger's hand. Then his unfocused eyes travelled north, taking in the expensive-looking suit, the dark red tie and the stark whiteness of the shirt. Finally, the round, pallid face of the man came into view, and Francis could have sworn he found that mug somewhat familiar.

On the other hand, he was pretty drunk, and just some ten minutes before he had apparently mistaken a random waitress for Conchita Wurst – and being a die-hard fan of that overly tacky, miraculous greatness known as Eurovision Song Contest, Francis obviously had begged her for an autograph. Only then he had noticed that, strangely, that perplexed Conchita missed the signature amount of facial hair. Hence, an alarmed Francis had immediately inquired about the makeover ( _"But that beard of yours was so glorious and pretty!"_ ), only to end up with what probably was a minor concussion when the fair maiden ( _not_ Conchita) had hit him with her tray.

So, yeah, the fact was that he couldn't be sure.

"Oh, hello, there," he purred anyway, just to be safe, switching almost automatically to his flirting mode. "Have we already met before?"

The tall maybe-stranger-maybe-not chuckled, seemingly amused. "Yes, this morning."

"Oh, really?" Francis straightened, rising from the honestly too crowded ottoman and shooting an apologetic smile at the couple of stunning blonde goddesses who had been practically glued to this sides until a moment ago. He swayed a little, spilling some of his bright green beverage on the equally colourful carpet, but the steady grip on his arm prevented him from nose-diving into said carpet. Blonde Goddess #1, on the other hand, giggled and nearly tumbled down the sofa.

Fighting to stand upright, Francis leaned heavily against the large frame next to him. "This morning…?"

A strong arm circled his waist, steadying him. "Exactly."

Francis didn't mind the contact. "Care to jog my memory, Mister…?"

"Braginsky. Ivan Braginsky."

Francis furrowed his brow, fully turning his attention to that smiling, pale face, and thinking hard. Or trying to do so, at least.

_Braginsky…_

That name sure had a familiar ring to it. And those eyes, even in that dim-lighted room and as stoned as he was, he was able to discern their peculiar colour – not quite blue, not quite purple. He _had_ to remember such unusual eyes…

_Braginsky… Bragin-_

Eventually, it hit him. He stared at the other man, now recognising the hulky, smiling figure of a that bigwig, and feeling suddenly very sick to his stomach.

_Oh, merde._

* * *

And so, he had been caught drinking and behaving a hundred per cent inappropriately by his new employer, no less. The exact day of his hiring.

Perfect, just perfect.

Francis Bonnefoy, exceptional football celebrity and one of the best eligible bachelors around, in that very moment just wanted to strangle himself.

Having been one of the top players in the world (at least until very recent times) meant that, season after season, the best teams had been doing anything in their power in hopes of convincing him to join their ranks.

Then, why the prospect of being sacked from what essentially was just one of the many available teams did bother him that much?

Let's say that, in the last couple of years, the once significant number of clubs interested in his not so humble persona had somewhat dropped. The cause for Francis' misfortune was a simple one: even considering his numerous virtues as a player, he had one big, inconvenient flaw.

That is, his debauched lifestyle.

While his technique and manners on the field were impeccable, Francis Bonnefoy's behaviour outside the football pitch could only be described as 'questionable': he was a genuine playboy, he went to all kind of parties and… well, usually ingested remarkable quantities of alcohol (more often than not uncaring of the hordes of paparazzi lurking in the area), with the predictable result of embarrassing himself and inconveniencing his team.

Which had repeatedly lead to him being kicked out of said team. An occurrence that had happened approximately three times in the last eighteen months or so.

Needless to say, in that very moment, his whole career needed a little boost, to put it mildly, and being fired just like fifteen hours after signing his latest contract wasn't going to help with his deteriorating professional life.

Not that he was piss poor or something, quite the contrary: having already played for some of the best European clubs, he had always been one of the better paid professionals. And, on top of that, he came from a wealthy and affluent family. To put it simply, he was filthy rich.

As much as money was not an issue, however, he _needed_ to keep playing. Even if he was somewhat of a jerk, even if his reputation left much to be desired, football had always been the most important part of his life. Possibly the only thing he really cherished.

That was the reason why he absolutely needed to defend his contract.

He risked a glance toward the tall man walking unhurriedly in front of him and sighed. Maybe, if he employed his innate charm wisely, he could still have the tiniest chance of holding down his job. He just had to behave like a decent human being and convince his scary new boss that choosing him that very morning had not been the biggest mistake of his whole life.

"Uhm," he started, clearing his throat. "You know, I think there was a misunderstanding."

The other man stopped and slowly turned to face him. They were just outside the nightclub at that point, the deafening noise of the techno being blasted from the DJ barely audible behind the already closed doors and the intimidating scowl of the doorman.

The tall Russian cocked his head, looking quizzically at him. "A misunderstanding?"

Francis honestly had some trouble arguing himself out of the problem, though. It probably had a lot to do with the fact that coherent speech required a lot of mental effort while being drunk as a skunk.

And it was cold as balls outside, damn!

The French suddenly remembered his jacket, still inside the club, previously discarded on one of the sofas and now probably squashed under the lovely behind of one of those pretty ladies who accompanied him until a while ago. He shivered, cursing under his breath. Braginsky, totally at ease in that sub-zero temperature wearing only his business suit, patiently waited for him to speak.

Francis shook his head. Now, what was he trying to say?

"L-like I said," he continued, gesticulating unnecessarily. "A huge misunderstanding, Big Boss… huh… yeah, something like this I suppose…"

He cringed at the sound of his own jumbled words. The other's expression, however, seemed relaxed and strangely entertained.

"Care to explain, Mister Bonnefoy?"

Francis could feel a little, cocky smile growing on his lips. Well, it seemed things weren't going so bad, after all. _Way to go, you drunken bastard!_ If he played his cards right, he could totally worm his way out of this issue. _Just be smooth, Francis, you can do it! Focus, just focus…!_

The French smirked his most charming smirk, leaning gracefully (or at least he hoped so) on the side of a parked car, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest, smugly. "I'm going to be completely honest, here, Boss–"

Then, obviously, his treacherous (and drunken) brain decided to just play Judas and take him to a catastrophic walk towards the path of self-destruction.

"Wait– whose shitty piece of junk is this?" He eyed the bright red vehicle against which he had just comfortably placed his own ass. "God, how I hate these stupid cars, just stuck-up losers drive these shitty wrecks, anyway!" He snorted, patting the crimson bodywork of the Prius in a mocking way. "Tree-hugging lunatics and such," he muttered, kicking the tyre for good measure and finally directing his attention back to the other man. "Well, what was I saying?"

"You mean, just before you started to insult me and my poor car?"

_Putain de merde._

* * *

The sickly sun of that historic mid-January morning barely filtered through Francis' closed lids as he lain sprawled on the expensive leather couch, yawning loudly.

Next to him, his brand new agent – a feisty twenty-something brunette he had nicknamed 'Chelle from Seychelles' who he had meet just a week before – coughed once, twice and then elbowed him in his side, probably cracking one or two of his ribs.

"Behave, for God's sake!" she hissed, while he was doubled over in pain and moaning pitifully.

"... 'm just tired, and they're late, and I don't give a sh–"

She glared at him, and Francis had to admit that, for being such a petite, cute girl, she could easily appear fucking _terrifying_.

"Listen to me Francis, you're gonna get this job. We have to sign this fucking contract today. You HAVE to succeed, or you're screwed." Her eyes were hard and determined and Francis shrank just a tiny bit under such an intense glare. "You're not allowed to fail. Fuck this chance and I'm going to annihilate you, is it clear?"

If before he was wondering about the reason why Antonio had recommended him this agent, now he knew.

"IS. IT. CLEAR?" she reiterated, and Francis nodded frantically, trying not to whimper pathetically.

Fucking terrifying indeed.

"Good," she said, now smiling serenely. "Just remember to put your best foot forward and use your damn brain."

The mahogany door at their left opened in that very moment, though, and Francis sprang to his feet, nervous. He heard Michelle chuckling lightly behind him – that sly, pint-sized virago. A rather cute blond four-eyes then peeked inside the room, smiling somewhat stiffly.

"Sorry for the wait, Mr Bonnefoy, Miss Morphey. The President is here."

And a second later, the tallest, creepiest-looking smiling Russian Francis had ever seen stepped into the room with his right hand extended towards him.

"Mr Bonnefoy, nice to meet you. I'm _Huracanes Amarillos_ ' owner, Ivan Braginsky."

* * *

And some sixteen hours later, there he was, awkwardly squirming on the passenger's seat of a crappy Prius, sitting next to the very person he had tried so hard to impress just that morning.

The same person who would probably fire him very soon. If it was possible to sack a corpse, that is: Michelle was surely going to kill him first. Slowly and with excruciating pain. Not that he blamed her, honestly.

Braginsky had not commented on the Prius thing, fortunately, but had not uttered a single word either, which Francis found pretty unnerving. He had been driving for almost fifteen minutes now, completely focused on the task, his big, pale hands gripping the wheel a little too hard in Francis' opinion. Maybe he was pissed at him, which was completely understandable. On the other hand, his expression was quite serene and Francis couldn't honestly fathom what was going on in the tycoon's head.

The thing was that he couldn't stand that silence anymore. But the exact moment Francis opened his mouth to say something probably stupid, Braginsky pressed his thumb on some button on the wheel and music started to fill the interior.

Classical music.

Francis cringed, covering his face with his hands and groaning.

"Is something the matter, Mr Bonnefoy?"

_Yeah, this shit makes me sleepy._ "N-no, nothing's wrong."

"Maybe you don't like Chopin?"

The French shook his head. "No, no, Chopin's okay." He swallowed, lowering his gaze and cursing himself for his sudden lack of communicativeness. He racked his brain for something vaguely smart to say, just to finally coming out with a pathetic: "So... A hybrid? _Seriously?_ "

_Francis Bonnefoy, you're a total idiot._

To his surprise, however, the other man just chuckled. "Is it so strange? Being considerate of the environment is a nice thing, don't you think? Also," he patted the dashboard, affectionately. "It's not that bad of a car, is it?"

Francis blinked, unsure of what his reply should be. That Russian couldn't be serious, come on...! It was a fucking Prius they were talking about!

"Even if my favourite will always remain my beloved Lada 2104, I really loved that car back then!"

Francis started to suspect Braginsky was indeed serious. He had that stupid, nostalgic smile plastered in his face and the French fought the urge to snicker.

"You really owned a Lada?"

The Russian smiled. "It was a very popular model when I was young, you know?"

_Which makes you a 90-year-old or something, I suppose…_

Francis pinched the bridge of his nose. It just didn't make sense to him. "I understand, but you are a millionaire, you could virtually buy _every_ car you fancy: Ferraris, Lamborghinis, whatever! So why are you driving around in– okay, never mind, it's not my business." He sighed, directing his gaze to the road, squinting through the darkness and realizing only then that he didn't have the faintest recognition of their surroundings.

"… where are we going?" he asked, spotting a sign which clearly hinted that his hotel was exactly at the other end of the city.

"To my place," was Braginsky's cheerful response. And Francis stared. And he kept doing so for at least a couple of minutes before managing to sputter a 'Why?' in a voice that probably was as manly as a bag full of meowing kittens.

He didn't know exactly _why_ , but he instinctively felt that soon he would be in trouble.

* * *

Braginsky maybe had an awful taste concerning cars, but his house was a sight to behold.

The huge penthouse apartment was an overwhelming triumph of high ceilings, marble floors, oversized windows and weird-as-fuck-but-surely-expensive art pieces scattered almost everywhere. There was a pool as well. And a roof garden, with a little corner especially assigned to growing vegetables and such.

A tree-hugger indeed.

"Isn't this place a little too big for someone who lives by himself?" Francis unnecessarily pointed out after having snooped around for a while.

The Russian, who was bustling around in his luxury kitchen, gave a soft laugh. "Who says that I live alone?" Francis felt that the sound he made when laughing was really charming for someone so huge and intimidating. He quickly removed that rogue thought from his brain and leaned across the granite counter-top of the breakfast bar.

"Antonio says that you're divorced."

"That's incorrect," Braginsky replied, filling a kettle with water and putting it on the stove. "Never been married." He was brewing tea, apparently, and Francis would have preferred some booze, but he surely had no intention to complain to the man who could determine his immediate destiny in the football world.

"He says it was written on some magazine or other," he insisted, resting his face on his hands.

"Mr Fernandez likes gossip, doesn't he?"

Francis snorted. "Probably because chances are that one of his best buddies ought to be on those papers, I suppose."

Braginsky chuckled, opening a cupboard and reaching around until he found a green tin with some Chinese characters on it. "You and Mr Weilschmidt sure like to keep the press entertained."

Still, Braginsky for some reason had wanted both of them in his team.

"And I'm not objected to some publicity, just so you know," Braginsky continued, leaning against the counter and toying with the tin in his hands. "However, I do care about the wellbeing of my players, and consequently of my team."

Francis already knew where that was going, but had the decency of keeping his mouth shut. If he was about to receive a good scolding, he could not complain. He had earned it, after all.

He tried to look as remorseful as he could, while the Russian looked at him solemnly as he added: "I'm not concerned with your private life as long as it doesn't impair your performance on the field. Paparazzi can get a shoot of you behaving immorally with whoever you want, for all I care, really. But drinking and doing drugs, this I won't allow."

"I'm not doing drugs!" Francis squeaked, even tough that wasn't the point, honestly. That man was lecturing him. Like he was his mother or something.

Well, he was his employer, so it made sense, somehow. But still...!

"Good, you should lie off the alcohol as well, for it's bad for your health and athletes should not drink anyway."

"You're making me look like I'm some sort of alcoholic or something, but really it's just a couple of drinks once a week–"

"It's still too much, you must take care of your body, it's your mean of support, isn't it?"

Francis blinked. "You really are one of those health zealots, aren't you?"

The kettle whistled, Braginsky turned his back to him and proceeded to make them tea. "You forget I'm Russian. I could drink a barrel full of alcohol and still properly enunciate Newton's law of universal gravitation." He shot a glance over his shoulder, smirking. "I'm serious, though. I want you to take care of your health, that's imperative."

And it really was, since Braginsky obviously considered the matter closed for good.

He had served him tea, then, spending the following hour chatting about idle things like they were old friends or something, though Francis just barely contributed to the conversation due to his awkwardness and his general lack of focus – that is, his lingering drunkenness.

When it had become apparent he was tired as hell, however, Braginsky had just pointed him to the enormous bathroom, instructed him to take a shower and, finally, put him in one of the guests' room, wishing him goodnight.

It was almost surreal, Francis pondered some twenty minutes later, glancing at the city's skyline outside the immense window. Wrapped in one of the fluffiest bathrobes he had ever worn and seated on the edge of the most comfortable bed in the history of beds, he looked at the silk pyjamas Braginsky had gently prepared for him on the pillow.

That guy surely liked to take care of his subordinates...

* * *

"He said he's not divorced, by the way..."

Antonio lifted his gaze from the continental breakfast he was wolfing down and stared at Francis with vacuous, green eyes. Then, when he finally managed the challenging task of eating and thinking at the same time, replied: "Don't think so, he was married to some Hungarian top-model but then broke-up after just a couple of months!"

"Nope, you're both wrong, he clearly bats for the other team!"

Francis threw an unimpressed glance towards the annoying albino across the table, while Antonio pointed a fork at him, furrowing his brows. " _Por el amor de Dios,_ Gil! Why you always think that everybody and everyone must be a homosexual?"

"I know I'm totally surrounded by homos," the other said, shrugging. "It's the way of the football, and nothing's wrong with a little gay now and then!"

Francis sighed. "Even if you try to spread your weird gay pheromones around, you still have no chances whatsoever with little Feli, just so you know..."

"Yeah, Romano would probably cut off your dick and feed it to his cat, if you tried something with his brother," Antonio sagely added between mouthfuls of food.

"You may be able to fool his cute, angelic brother, but little Roma knows you're a dirty pervert, Gil," joked the blond.

Gilbert Weilschmidt, Francis' long-time friend and more recently teammate, glared at him. "Don't talk like you wouldn't actually grope the living lights out of each and every human being crossing your way, regardless of gender and age, Francis!"

"I'm deeply hurt by your words, my dear friend!"

"If it helps, I honestly think you're both perverts."

"Nobody asked for your opinion, Tonio!"

Ending in the same team of both his best friends certainly had been a strange coincidence for Francis. Even if it was Tonio's fault he now had to earn his living by passing the ball to the noisy idiot that was Gilbert.

Antonio obviously knew Francis was in dire need of a new contract, and knew that Gilbert's new boss was scouting for talents, even the most troublesome ones – hell, if he had hired a rotten apple like Gilbert! However, since apparently Braginsky was looking for some qualified staff as well, the unsuspectedly scheming Spaniard had first got himself a job as the Athletic Trainer for the team and then had nonchalantly namedropped Francis' credentials to the Sporting Director.

Who, incidentally, was Gilbert's little brother. As 'little' as a towering blond, blue-eyed German hunk could be, obviously.

Some sweet-talking and a couple of telephone calls by his new manager later, Francis found himself in the luxurious office of Ivan Braginsky, _Huracanes Amarillos_ ' owner and CEO.

The rest was history.

More or less, since it had happened just a couple of days before.

"It seems that this year's training camp will be particularly tough," Antonio suddenly declared, putting to use his innate ability to flit from topic to topic like a butterfly on steroids.

Gilbert cursed, burying his face in his hands. "Not again, please..."

Seeing the usually high-spirited player so down in the dumps about something football-related puzzled Francis to the point of elbowing Antonio and addressing him with his best 'What's the matter with him?' expression. The brunet shrugged, shoving a piece of bread in his mouth.

"Training camps at _Amarillos_ are a little strange, if compared to the other teams..."

" _A little strange_?" echoed Gilbert, staring at Antonio like he had grown an extra head. "Braginsky is a damn sadist and has the weirdest ideas, I swear!"

"Ivan and manager Adnan's methods are not weird, just a little unconventional," the Spaniard calmly explained, gulping down a good litre of milk and proceeding to attack the croissants. Gilbert shook his head with such force Francis feared it could come off his neck and start rolling on the wooden floor by their feet. "However, from what I've been told," Antonio continued, "This year camp will–"

Gilbert leaned across the table, nearly knocking his own coffee down in the process. "Last year it was on the fucking mountains, Francis. We were fucking surrounded by GOATS!" He shoot their Spanish friend a glare. "I refuse to think of something worse than that!"

"I don't know the details, _buuut_..."

"And we had to play whole practice matches on pasture lands, can you believe that, Francis?!" Gilbert cut him off again. "They were fucking SLOPES!"

"Well, it seems that this year we'll go somewhere completely different..."

"We had to play on SLOPES and avoid stepping on COW SHIT!"

"Natalia said something about a monastery..."

"It was horrible, Francis, believe m–what the fuck did you just say, Tonio?!"

Natalia Arlovskaya, manager Sadiq Adnan's assistant, was the hottest coach Francis had ever had the pleasure of encountering. And also the deadliest. The first time he had met the icy beauty, during some charity event or other a couple years before, when he still played in _Ligue 1_ , Francis had made the fatal mistake of making a pass at her. He still remembered the PAIN.

What was really bizarre, though, was that Braginsky had seemed to attract a conspicuous number of the most incredible and talented people the world of football could offer, a crazy mishmash of the weirdest and most amazing freaks around – who, for some strange quirk of destiny, Francis knew personally. Aside from Gil and Tonio, and Natalia and Sadiq (who was an ex-player himself and who Francis had the pleasure of meeting on the field before), there was obviously the aforementioned Gilbert's little brother, Ludwig.

And not only him: Francis would soon share the field with the cutest pair of Italian brothers ever, Feliciano and Romano Vargas. Not to mention the grumpiest defender in the history of football, Arthur Kirkland himself. And his huge eyebrows.

And this was just a small list of all the people involved with the team that he somehow already knew, from the staff to the higher-ups. Really unbelievable.

Yet, there was a person in particular that Francis still didn't know very well, but he had every intention to deal with this matter as soon as possible.

* * *

"It is rumoured that next month you're gonna take us to a monastery in the middle of nowhere, is it true?"

The fair-haired Russian kept fumbling with his wallet, while the valet waited patiently near the usual red, sad Prius. "Beg your pardon?"

Francis cast a worried glance at the cloud-covered sky and simply shoved a twenty in the youngster's extended hand, waving him away with a smile and shooing his boss to the door on the passenger's side. It was going to rain soon, Francis was sure neither of them carried an umbrella, and he just wanted to hurry the hell up and reach Ivan's place before the downpour started.

The other man looked at him curiously, cocking his head and doing that cute thing with his eyebrows that made Francis squeal internally. Seriously, a man that big and imposing couldn't be so ridiculously cute…

"Tonight I'm driving," Francis explained, opening the door for him and then going round the car and reaching the driver's seat. "I wish to see what's so exceptional about this piece of crap that you obstinately keep calling 'car'."

As usual, Ivan didn't object and just fastened the seatbelt.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to your place, obviously," was Francis reply as he started the car. "I still have to beat your ass at that stupid game of yours. What was it? Mario _something…_ "

"Mario Kart. You never won before, what makes you think this time you'll be able to do so?"

"I told you I hated videogames when I was a kid!"

"What a sad, tragic childhood you must have endured."

"Shut up, Braginsky."

"You forgot to fasten your seatbelt."

"Yes mom, sorry mom."

So, as ridiculous as it might appear, Francis had befriended his boss. Or, to be completely honest, Francis perved on him while pretending to be his friend.

He had even stopped drinking and trying to bed every lucky soul that just happened to shoot him a smile.

Oddly, even if Ivan was far from being his type, since the beginning Francis had felt strangely captivated by him. He didn't exactly understand how or why it had happened, and honestly he couldn't care less. Francis usually didn't overthink things, if he felt like doing something, he just did it. Sure enough, this inclination had often got him in trouble, but this time he had this impression that things would turn out all right.

"So, what's the deal with this monastery thing?"

Ivan stopped fumbling with the radio for a moment and looked at him. "It should have been a surprise…" And then, just like that, he _pouted_. Like a five-year-old or something. It took all of Francis' willpower just not to jump him right there and then – probably causing the shitty Prius to crash directly into a tree.

Yeah, Francis had it that bad.

"Well, sorry to disappoint you," he replied, trying to focus on the road. "But everybody already knows. We just don't get… well, _why_?"

"Training one's mind is just as important as training one's body."

They were lucky Francis had just parked in front of the exclusive building that housed Ivan's apartment, otherwise he would have really drove into a lamppost or something. He turned to the other man, and of course the Russian had the most serious expression on his face.

"Last year it was the idyllic retreat together with the livestock at high altitudes, now the ascetic contemplation of spiritual matters along with the monks?"

"It had been really fun last year, by the way…"

"Gilbert definitely doesn't think so."

Ivan simply laughed and half an hour later the two of them were already sprawled on Ivan's classy leather couch, the usual steaming cups of tea on the glass coffee table and some boring American docudrama about some 1930's Hollywood actor who Francis didn't even know.

"So, Francis, how's the training going?" Ivan asked suddenly, and Francis instinctively tensed.

"Uh…"

"Are you already accustomed to your new environment?"

The French swallowed, nervous. "Did someone complain or–?"

The other blinked and shook his head, slowly. "Not that I'm aware of…"

"I don't know what Sadiq had told you, but last week Arthur and I weren't really fighting, I swear!"

Ivan raised a hand in a placating gesture. "No, I didn't mean like that–"

But Francis was already on his feet, gesticulating a lot and sweating profusely. "I've known him since forever, it's just our way of goofing around!"

"Francis…"

"I like to poke fun at his massive eyebrows and the stick he perpetually has up his butt, and he likes to throw punches at my face, it's our modus operandi!"

Ivan successfully cut short Francis' rambling by grasping his shoulders and forcing him back on the couch. He then shoved one of the cups in his empty hand and looked at him right in the eyes. "Francis, get a grip, I'm not going to give you the boot or something."

The French pathetically opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water for a good minute, before blushing so intensely that he feared his face would simply combust. "I-I'm not– I mean… I didn't–"

"It's not that I conducted a background check on you, but I knew your past experiences with some clubs weren't exactly the best." Francis cringed at that, suddenly none too proud of his olden days, but Ivan continued, undeterred: "At any rate, it's what are you doing now, for our team, that counts. And I really think you're doing a great job."

Okay, that was surely unexpected.

"Really?" Francis asked, unable to conceal the doubtfulness in his tone.

Ivan nodded, smiling. "Of course! I already knew you were an exceptional player, but it seems to me that you hit it off with your teammates and the staff almost immediately!"

"That's just because I already knew most of them…"

"Well, it doesn't matter."

Still somewhat touched by that little inspirational speech, Francis simply nodded and sipped some lukewarm tea, in silence. He tried to divert his attention to the uninteresting documentary, but Ivan's voice startled him and he almost dropped his cup on his lap.

"Moreover, for your information," the Russian started, "Concerning that issue with Kirkland, I consider such things nothing but little skirmishes."

"What about the harmony within the team?" Francis asked, doubtful, arching a brow.

Ivan smirked. "Nothing cements friendship like a brawl or two! When I still was in my dear old team, we were always trading punches!"

The other man blinked, surprised. "Were you a football player yourself?" Well, that was new...

"No, I played in the SKA Saint Petersburg," Ivan replied. Then, maybe noticing Francis' apparent lack of enthusiasm, he sighed and added: "It's a professional hockey team."

Ooh, Francis contemplated, it certainly suits him.

All of a sudden, Francis wished he could have seen him in action, squashing adversaries into the boards and projecting the puck at their teeth. Or whatever hockey players did during matches – Francis wasn't an expert but was quite sure the sport involved some kind of rough contact. And, despite his pacific behaviour, Ivan seemed the kind of guy that could deliver a lot of physical pain to his opponents, if needed.

That was an interesting mental picture that Francis would definitely study in deep later.

"Mind if I ask you something?"

Ivan smiled his usual adorable smile and shook his head. "Not at all, shoot!"

"If you were into hockey, why did you buy a football club then?"

A rather pathetic one, nonetheless. Until a decade before, the _Huracanes_ was nothing more than a small, unimportant club made of amateurs. Then, this mysterious Russian tycoon appeared out of nowhere and bought it up. He reformed the management, beefed up the staff and somehow persuaded some of the best players to come and play in his team. Since then, the club had been steadily growing, becoming more and more influential by the year, to the point of competing at the same level of Spain's more powerful clubs. It was nothing short of a miracle, something straight out a movie, really.

"Well, I needed to invest my money, somehow. It seemed like a good idea!"

Francis addressed him an unimpressed look, and Ivan chuckled. "Okay, let's say that even if hockey was my entire life and I still love that sport to death," he sighed, running a hand through his pale hair, "Some stuff happened, and consequently not all the memories I built during that period are happy ones."

He added a little laugh at the end of his speech, but Francis knew he had probably hit a sore spot. So he didn't press the matter and just asked the one thing he had desperately wanted to ask since the beginning.

"But why coming all the way to Spain? Why the _Huracanes_?" And most importantly: "Why adding the _Amarillos_ part?"

Because, seriously, Francis fucking hated the colour yellow. And, as a consequence, totally despised the stupid yellow and orange shirts they had to wear during matches. The French honestly thought that their was the most appalling uniform in the history of football.

"Francis, I suppose you didn't really explore the surroundings, am I right?"

The other man just shook his head. He had been residing in the city for at least a couple of months already, but never set foot in places that weren't the downtown, the football fields or Ivan's flat.

His silence was the most evident reply for Ivan, who just sighed and shot him a reprimanding look. "In case you didn't notice, the countryside around the city is completely occupied by sunflower fields."

_Cool... So, what?_

That extended silence elicited another sigh from Ivan. He started to tap his foot, impatiently, then finally exclaimed: "I just really like sunflowers, okay? And yellow is the colour of sunflowers, and is such a pretty colour, hence the location and the name." He was blushing a little when he added: "How's that?"

On his part, Francis was just having a cerebral melt-down due the cuteness overload. Was that man for real? Ivan Braginsky would be the death of him, he was sure of it.

"Fair enough," he replied, coughing and trying not to blush as well. "It is actually one of the best reasons for buying a club that I had ever heard."

Ivan beamed, and even if it was like two in the morning and outside was raining buckets, for a moment, to Francis it seemed like the sun had just blinded him. "I know, right?"

The French, once again too overwhelmed to speak, just nodded and lowered his gaze, toying with the hem of his shirt.

It was bad, very _very_ bad. Much worse than he had imagined.

His heart was hammering against his ribcage, his mind was a hazy mess, and even if he hadn't had dinner that night, he felt like he was going to puke.

He knew the symptoms. That wasn't just a simple crush anymore.

 

The end.


End file.
